


Respiration for Beginners

by dzzyondreams



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzzyondreams/pseuds/dzzyondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete’s eyes widen for a second.  “You’re not fucking with me?”</p>
<p>“What the fuck?  No,” says Patrick.  “But you’re gonna have to help me out a bit here.”</p>
<p>“Um.  Okay,” says Pete.  “When you were on top of me?  And your hand was on my neck?  That was good.”</p>
<p>--(Also known as my Miss Missing You behind-the-scenes fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respiration for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> [sceptick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceptick/pseuds/sceptick) is a dirty rotten enabler but also a wonderful beta, so this whole thing is basically her fault. Any remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> I chose not to use archive warnings on this piece because they lack nuance, but (since this is YBC) there are mentions of fake violence and fake blood.

Patrick winces at the heavy thunk of Pete’s head on the floor and hopes the impact was somewhat less painful than it sounded.

“Ow,” Pete says, rubbing the back of his head like he can already feel the bump he’ll probably have tomorrow.  As soon as Adam calls out a “Cut!” from behind his camera, Patrick kneels down next to Pete and asks if anyone has an ice pack; they make do with ice cubes out of the cooler wrapped in some extra bandages from costuming.  Pete doesn’t complain when Patrick holds it carefully to the back of his head, but he does when Patrick makes him sit still for ten minutes until someone can come over and verify that he doesn’t have a concussion.

“Be _careful_ ,” Patrick says after they’re given the all-clear.  Pete won’t.  This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. 

The second take has to be redone because Pete took his jacket off to keep from overheating during their break.  Patrick leans against the wall and scowls a bit because if Pete thinks wearing a jacket is hard in this heat, he should try having his hand wrapped up and stuffed in a hook.  Pete just grins at him as they reset, though, andPatrick can’t stay mad at him for long.  It’s a weakness that seems to be growing of late.

The third take, Patrick very nearly takes out Pete’s eye with his hook and spends the next two minutes apologizing.

“You were like six inches away from it, dude,” says Pete with a shrug.  “My shoulder is what you really almost got.  Just don’t flail it around too much.”

If Pete had a hook, everyone within a five-foot radius of them would be missing a limb right now.  Patrick is at least trying to be careful.  Though they’d done a rough choreography of the fight scenes, there was nothing about how to safely move while wearing a hook.  Then again, Patrick wouldn’t have to flail if Pete didn’t try to push him off quite so hard.  His balance is only so good.

They reset again, but their fourth attempt is stopped short by Pete demanding that Patrick stop holding back.  “You hate me!” he reminds Patrick, seeming far too delighted by the concept.  Patrick had hoped the Young Blood Chronicles would reflect the tamer, more mature Pete Wentz he knows today, but Pete has been the same sort of overzealous with it as with every video they’ve done before.  

“You know, I don’t actually want to strangle you,” says Patrick, “I’m usually a singer, not an actor.”  Frankly, he thinks he’s making a good showing considering the fact that he can feel Pete half-hard beneath him.  

“Oh,” says Pete shortly, pushing Patrick off so he can stand up.  “Whatever.”

The fifth run seems better to Patrick; no one gets hurt or fucks up their choreography, but Pete’s still not happy with it.  People call Patrick the perfectionist and okay, they’re probably right, but they’ve also never seen Pete during a shoot.

“That was better,” says Pete, nodding as much as he can without banging his head against the ground again, “but I’m not gonna break.  Seriously.  You don’t have to be so careful.  Again?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” says Patrick quietly, leaning back and rolling his hips against Pete’s as subtly as he can.  He’d rather not have certain aspects of their relationship recorded on film, especially since they’re trying to keep it a secret for the time being.  Usually, it’s not a problem for them.  Usually, Pete can keep himself in check when they’re in public.  

Pete just bites his lip the way he always does when he’s trying to stay quiet.  That probably doesn’t signify an impending return to professionalism.

Patrick sighs and wonders if they need to revisit the conversation they’d had about sex tapes.  “Chris, Pete, I can’t believe this—” and here Patrick waves his arm around at the assorted bored crew members, carnivalesque set, and general accoutrements of shooting—“is doing it for you.”    

Pete’s hand clenches around Patrick’s wrist for a second before he shoves Patrick off.  “What the fuck does it matter,” he says at last, sitting up, his knees pulled close to his chest.  It’s a subtle way of telling Patrick to fuck off.  

“Let’s take ten,” says Patrick to the assembled crew, and everyone wanders off for water, shade, bathrooms.

“Hey,” says Patrick once they’re all gone, “hey, what’s up, Pete?”  

“Nothing,” says Pete. “Forget about it.”

“Pete, c’mon,” says Patrick.  He’s trying to be patient, but they were supposed to be solid.  They’ve been past the point of bottling things up instead of talking for months, or so Patrick had thought.

Pete finally turns to face him and Patrick, after checking to make sure they’re still alone, shifts to put a cautious arm around Pete’s shoulders.  “What’s wrong?”

Pete deflates a bit and leans into Patrick’s touch.  “Nothing.  Sorry.  I’m sorry.”  

Patrick’s used to those kind of answers, because they come hand in hand with being Pete’s friend.  Just because Pete’s been doing better doesn’t mean he’s immune to bad days.  

“Let’s get through this, okay?” says Patrick.  “I’m not trained in acting and I’m sorry, but it’s hard for me to pretend I want to kill you.”  

“Yeah,” says Pete, leaning in for a quick kiss.  They’d have time for more, since no one has shown up yet and probably no one will until Pete goes out to round them up, but neither of them want to be the one explaining why Patrick’s makeup is all messed up.  “Just, I don’t know, pretend we’re messing around in bed.”

“I think the part where I’m trying to kill you gets in the way of that,” says Patrick.  “But maybe I’ll try.”  Or maybe he won’t.  He doesn’t want their entire fanbase analyzing the videos to see if he has a boner.  

Pete huffs at him, clearly still in a mood, and says, “Fine, let’s go.”  He gets up before Patrick can steal another kiss; leaves Patrick feeling strangely unbalanced as he goes out in search of the crew.  Patrick takes a deep breath and tries to put it all from his mind for the time being.  He doesn’t need any more going on in his head right now.

The sixth and seventh takes are both off and it’s not Patrick’s fault this time; Pete keeps fumbling his cues, and now when Patrick lands on top of him, Pete lashes out with a vengeance.  Patrick can’t get a handle on his responses with Pete in this state.

“Dude,” Patrick says, nudging him harder than he meant as they go to reset.  Pete stumbles into the doorframe.

“What the fuck, asshole.”

“What the fuck yourself,” says Patrick.  “You tell me I’m not acting well enough and then throw in the towel yourself?  I can’t do this without you.”

  “Sorry,” says Pete, for what seems like the millionth time.  Patrick puts a hand between Pete’s shoulder blades under the guise of guiding him around any more obstacles, but more because he needs the reminder that they’re not actually tearing at each other in this eerie, claustrophobic room.   That they’re going to walk away together, unharmed, and that the animosity is only pretend.

The eighth time they try the scene, Pete is focused again, totally on, and Patrick does his best to feed off it and throw it back.  For a second he almost feels like he wants to tear Pete limb from limb, and he presses down on Pete’s throat harder than he should before he remembers himself.  As soon as he hears the “cut!” he’s apologizing to Pete, who seems rather confused.

“What? That was good,” Pete says.  Around them, the crew has started to move their equipment outside.  Patrick carefully stands up and offers Pete a hand, hoping that everyone has somehow missed that Pete’s rock hard.  Again.  He also hopes they won’t suspect his ulterior motives in pulling Pete into a hug despite the fact that it’s nearly a hundred out.

Pete, clearly oblivious to Patrick’s thoughts, takes the hug as a signal that it’s okay to grind up against him.

“Stop that,” Patrick hisses.  “There are people here.”

“They won’t tell,” says Pete, but Patrick’s been around long enough to know how much bullshit that is.  Someone will _always_ tell.  

“You,” says Patrick, “need to get a handle on this.  We’re here for another three hours, and no, I’m not going to give you a hand job behind the makeup trailer.”  

“It was the _equipment_ trailer,” says Pete.  “And I thought it would help us relax.”  

“Not happening,” says Patrick.

“Fine.” Pete pulls back from Patrick and slumps against the wall instead, poking experimentally at the back of his head and wincing when he figures out that it’s still tender.  It’s almost like he wants to walk away with battle scars; all Patrick can do is hope they won’t be serious.  “Hey, at least you got over that thing where you don’t want to hurt me.”  

“No I didn’t,” says Patrick, “because I _don’t want to hurt you_.  Jesus Christ, Pete.”

  “I’m fine with it,” says Pete.  “Like.  It’s not for real.”  

Patrick just shakes his head.  “Let’s go,” he says, “and get set for the next scene, so we can get this over with.”  Pete doesn’t follow him outside to ask Adam where they’re needed.  Patrick tries not to read into that.

The next shot is only Pete, so Patrick gets to hide in the relative coolness of the house until they get it right.  Then it’s back out into the scorching heat, dressed in a costume that would be more comfortable during an L.A. winter, hoping he doesn’t sweat his makeup off.  He runs and snarls and glares like he’s told, and is vaguely aware of Pete’s eyes on him as he does it.

The blocking requires Patrick to keep his distance from Pete, but when they break to prepare for the last scene, Patrick steals Pete’s water and drinks a good half of it.  “What do you think the chances are that we’ll get through this in one take?” he asks.

“Zero, now that you’ve said that,” says Pete.  “Just…do what you did before.  You know.”  He presses in close to Patrick and rests his nose in the hollow of Patrick’s neck, which kickstarts Patrick’s heart and makes him dread having to return to his character.  The constant anger drags on him, and when he’s in it, he can’t even turn to Pete.  He feels much more suited to this Pete than the one on camera.

“Yeah,” he answers anyway, because it probably shouldn’t be this hard.  He’s definitely wanted to kill Pete in the past.  Lately the urge happens with less frequency, and when he’s around Pete, it’s hard to remember it at all.  Patrick has an inkling that it’s why they made it through the first year of the band without snapping.  When they’re called to their marks, Patrick tries to forget for a moment that he’s mostly in love with Pete and return to being the asshole of a kid he was.  It only kind of works.

They don’t get it in one take, and Patrick dawdles in the reset so he can pull Pete aside on their way back.  “Hey,” he says.  “Earlier?  It worked because of you.  You know that, right?”

Pete huffs in what could be agreement, or surprise.  “So you want…what?”

It’s not easy to quantify what about Pete’s acting had worked; Patrick just knows that for a moment he’d felt everything he was supposed to be feeling and then managed to translate that into their take.  “Look dangerous, I guess,” he says.  Pete makes a face and Patrick shakes his head.  “That’s the face you make when you want to take edgy selfies in front of the bathroom mirror.  You want to kill me, remember?”

“I have to,” Pete corrects.  “I don’t want to.”  

Patrick shoves Pete lightly away as he takes his position, brain skipping ahead to imagine his choreography one last time.  Then they’re rolling again, and Patrick bares his teeth and tries to look as threatening while Pete jabs at him with his highly-stylized machete.  He keeps his hook away from any appendages when he’s grappling with Pete, and remembers to look pained when Pete stabs him.  He stays still for the requisite minute at the end though he’s managed to line up his kidney with a mid-sized rock, and only cracks an eyelid after he hears, “Cut!”

“Water,” Patrick gasps as soon as he gets up; the sticky-sweet taste of the fake blood capsules coats the inside of his mouth and, along with the hot-dry-dusty air, threatens imminent suffocation.  Someone hands him a bottle and he thanks them briefly before rinsing his mouth out and wiping off his lips as well as he can.  He hopes his mouth isn’t stained.  “Tell me that was good?”

Pete shakes his head from where he’s hanging over Adam’s shoulder, looking at the camera’s small display.  “When we’re—here, c’mere, we need to fix our blocking.”

Adam stands by as they run through the scene a couple of times to fix the rough areas, then reset for the next take.  Patrick fights back a grain when he looks at Adam afterward only to see him shaking his head.

“I need a break,” says Pete, once they’ve finally gotten it.  “Two seconds.”

Two seconds turns into ten minutes as everyone who’s been working with them takes Pete’s lead; Patrick is grateful for the rest, as he’s dripping sweat and he feels even worse than he looks.  The darkness in this world of Pete’s creation is getting too far under his skin and messing with his head; by the time the scene starts, Patrick’s only half sure he has the right sequence memorized.  His suspicions are confirmed when he goes the wrong way and almost takes Pete’s head off.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back and thereby ruining any chance that they might salvage the take.  “What do I do there?”

The light is fading fast, and this isn’t the last shot they’ll need.  Patrick makes a mental note to send effusive thank-yous to everyone who’s still here with them.  They were supposed to be done before night fell.

The crew try to fake an afternoon glow with their lighting rigs, and Patrick leans against a trailer next to Pete, tired.  He doesn’t even try to guard his water bottle from Pete, and doesn’t protest when Pete finishes the thing even though it was near half full.  He just yawns and leans against Pete’s shoulder and thinks about how nice it will be once they’re home tonight and he can stop pretending to be this—thing.  At least the only remaining scene involves the death of Pete’s monstrous imitation of him.  

It’s mostly dark by the time they’re all set, fake blood ready to go and Pete laying back in the spot he’d fallen at the end of the last scene, nearly an hour ago.  “Action,” says the director, and Patrick tries to pull himself back into the mindset he needs to be in.

As soon as he falls over, Patrick’s back up again, shaking his head.  “Sorry, sorry,” he says.  “That was—it was off.  Again?”

“Hurry it up, fucker,” Pete says, cracking an eye.  “There’s a pebble poking my ass.”  

Patrick considers the innuendos he could make and ends up saying none of them.  The levity gets caught in his throat amongst some of the fake blood he’s accidentally ingested.

The next take is good, he thinks; his staggering leads more naturally into his fall, and he doesn’t even land on anything that hurts.  He’s laying on the ground counting off the end of the scene and trying to not look like he’s breathing when he hears a “cut!” fifteen seconds earlier than expected.

“No, what?” says Pete, next to him.  “That wasn’t long enough.”  He starts to get up so he can look at it, but Patrick pulls him back down.

  “If you move we have to reshoot the whole thing,” he says.  “Just.  We’ll do it again.”

He resets, hopefully for the final time, and waits for his cue.  Lets fake blood dribble down his chin; falls down; lays back on the hard, dusty ground and hopes this is the last time because he doesn’t know if he has it in him to do this again.

This time the shot drags to its full length, and Pete gratefully bounds up as soon as it’s called.  Patrick goes through the now too-familiar ritual of cleaning his face of fake blood without messing up his other makeup or his costume, and hopes for the best.  “Tell me we got it?”

Pete’s reviewing footage with the director, and he shoots Patrick a thumbs-up without ever looking away from the screen.  Patrick leans against a table and digs the edge of his boot into the dust.  He’s dying to be out of this getup altogether, but he has to be completely sure they’re done.

“Good,” says Pete, “We’re good,” and he strips off his jacket and shirt as he walks away.

Patrick jogs a bit to catch up with him.  “Go us, huh?”  He reaches out for a high five but Pete doesn’t slap back, so Patrick turns it into an awkward shoulder pat.

  “Yeah, sure,” says Pete.  “Hey, can we wait to shower until we get back?  I don’t want to be out here for any longer than I have to.”

“Let me get rid of this makeup,” says Patrick. “Then we’re good to go.”  

“Thanks.”  Pete throws an arm around him for maybe a second before shoving him off toward makeup.  Pete’s sudden distance makes Patrick stumble; he can’t think of what he’d done that would cause it.  Maybe it’s all in his head—but on the ride back, when he leans against Pete for comfort Pete just…lets him.  That makes Patrick’s stomach clench even more.

Patrick hates fighting in public, be it small arguments or the big blowout this feels more likely to end up, so he focuses on his breathing to keep from saying anything.  If the way his mind has already clicked into panic mode is any indicator, though, they have to fix this before they both lose sleep over it.  Pete’s face, illuminated by the glow of his phone, holds the marks of tension only Patrick knows how to see.  He wishes he knew how to erase them as well.  

When they get home, Pete claims the downstairs shower without a word.  It’s kind of of a dick move; they’ve both they’ve both been rolling around in the dirt all day and on top of that, Patrick’s hand feels like it’s still suffocating under two layers of gauze.  Remnants of his makeup have left his face even stickier than the rest of his body, which has been subjected to a full day of summer sun.  

Patrick trudges upstairs to the shower in their bedroom and tiredly rinses himself.  Even as the day’s sweat and grime swirls down the drain, he doesn’t feel refreshed.  He pulls his pajamas on once he’s out, too exhausted to bother with anything else, and heads back down the stairs to figure out where Pete is.  

Pete, it turns out, is on the sofa with a notebook in his hand.  “Hey,” says Patrick.

“I ordered pizza.”  Pete doesn’t even look up when he says it, and Patrick sighs and steps over his feet, which are propped on the table.  Pete only seems to notice him when he sits down, and then his response is to pull the notebook away.  Which is…weird.  Patrick’s probably seen everything Pete’s written, though there are sometimes delays between the dates of creation and reveal.  Now that they’re basically living together, that’s all but disappeared.

“What,” says Patrick, carefully holding himself back.  If Pete doesn’t want him here then…he’ll go somewhere else, he supposes.  He’d much rather Pete stop being so cagey about whatever’s going on in his head.

“Nothing,” says Pete.  “Just.  Never mind.”  He chucks the notebook toward the music room and it skids across wood floors.  Hemmy sniffs at it as he waddles down the hall toward them.

“No, _what_ ,” says Patrick, not ready to be put off so easily.

“Did you sit on the remote?”

Rather than answer, Patrick gets up and heads to the kitchen where he gets himself a glass of water.  The ice clinks against the sides more violently the longer he holds it so he sets it on the counter, leans over and rests his face in his hands.  This isn’t the first time they’ve fought, or even the fifteenth, but every time makes Patrick feel like he’s gotten into something that’s going to tear him apart when it ends.  He tries not to think of whens instead of ifs, but days like these, it seems inevitable that they’ll only be able to hold it together for so long.

He’s out there until he hears a knock on the door and Pete brushes past him to get it.  “Pizza,” he announces, once the door has closed, and Patrick grabs them napkins and heads out to the living room, where Pete’s already started.

Patrick sits on the other end of the sofa and picks listlessly at his slice.  Food Network is on in the background and he pretends to be interested in Guy Fieri doing whatever he’s doing.  Pete’s still on his phone, texting one of the million people he probably keeps around specifically for days like this when he wants to ignore Patrick.  He’s doing a fantastic job of it.  

They hardly exchange two words during dinner, and afterward Patrick knows better than to try; just pulls out his laptop and headphones and tries to get something done while he gives Pete time to cool down.  They’ll work it out.  They _have_ to—they have shows to play and appearances to make, if nothing else.  A band to be a part of.

When Pete heads upstairs, Patrick gives him a few minutes and then follows.  Pete’s brushing his teeth when he sees Patrick, and he glances the other direction.  Patrick brushes his teeth after Pete’s left to let out Hemmy one more time, then slides into bed.

“Hey,” says Patrick, when Pete joins him a few minutes later.

“Hey,” says Pete.  “I’m tired, fuck.”

“Yeah,” says Patrick.  Then, because delaying won't make this any easier, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  Pete turns on his side, back to Patrick.  

“Stop it,” says Patrick, pulling at Pete’s shoulder until he rolls onto his back again.  “I know you, Pete, and I don’t know what I did to piss you off but I wish you would tell me so I can apologize and not do it again.”

“You didn’t do anything,” says Pete, and Patrick knows better than to loosen his grip because if he does, Pete will turn away again.  “Can you just fuck off about it and let me get over it?”  This time Pete almost manages to wrench his shoulder out of Patrick’s grasp and turn away, so Patrick rolls over and makes use of one of his knees to pin Pete down.  Only then does Patrick release his pressure on Pete’s shoulder, and replaces it with a warning hand on his breastbone: _don’t._  

“No,” says Patrick.  “What the hell are you getting over?”

“Get off,” says Pete, shoving at him.  “It doesn’t matter, you’re pretty clear that you don’t want it, so back the fuck off.”  

“Pete.”  Patrick grabs at Pete’s wrist and Pete stills beneath him.  “Will you just.  _Please_.  Tell me what it is.  I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Pete turns his face away, but this time it looks more like shame.

“Babe.”  Patrick runs his thumb over the inside of Pete’s wrist.  “Talk to me.  Please.  I won’t…” he doesn’t know what assurance Pete wants from him.  

“Earlier,” says Pete, and he’s still not looking at Patrick, but at least he’s communicating.  “You said you didn’t want to hurt me and you didn’t listen when I said it was okay.  And whatever.  Just.  You can get off me now.”

“I.  What?” says Patrick.  He vaguely remembers the conversation, but it had been such a throwaway thing.  “Pete, I almost killed you with my hook.  Twice.”

“No you didn’t,” says Pete.  “You fucking didn’t, okay, because you’re so damn careful about everything and it’s usually endearing but I really fucking wish you wouldn’t be sometimes.  Because I want you—I _need_ you—to not.”  

It’s the most Pete’s said to him in hours, Patrick realizes, and the hints of panic on Pete’s face suggest a reason for his silence.  

Patrick’s starting to get the gist of Pete’s point, but he still feels like he’s putting two and two together and getting zero.  “Is this about us in general?  Like, now?  Because the context of that conversation was totally different.  And I didn’t know that’s what you were…”  

“You knew,” says Pete.  “You knew I liked it, don’t fucking lie.”  And that…made sense, actually.  The pieces were starting to click together in Patrick’s brain.  

“I didn’t think,” he admits.  “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t even…” it seems so obvious in retrospect; Patrick is a tad embarrassed it’s taken him so long to get on board.  Then again, maybe it’s a good thing his mind wasn’t on the same track as Pete’s, given where they were at the time.   “Okay.  What do you want?”

“I just told you what I fucking want.”

“No, like, if we’re going to do this, _specifically_ what.” says Patrick.  “I haven’t really done much of this before, so…”  He tries to focus on the feel of Pete’s chest rising and falling against the inside of his arm.  _Control_.  He needs to find some.

Pete’s eyes widen for a second.  “You’re not fucking with me?”

“What the fuck?  No,” says Patrick.  “But you’re gonna have to help me out a bit here.”

“Um.  Okay,” says Pete.  “When you were on top of me?  And your hand was on my neck?  That was good.”  From their current position, that won’t take much rearranging. 

“Anything else?”

Pete shrugs.  “Isn’t that enough for you?”  

“Yeah, okay,” says Patrick.  “But for future reference…”

“You’re totally going to do research, aren’t you,” asks Pete.  The smile on his face makes Patrick’s heart clench a little.

“Fuck off,” Patrick says reflexively.  It’s hard to be serious when he’d rather just get caught up in Pete’s happiness.  “I don’t want to make mistakes with this.  If we do this, I want to do it right,”

"Okay." Pete says. “I’ll make you a list later.  Can we just kind of—fool around with it right now?"

As much as Patrick wants to be careful, he’s already hard at the prospect.  Saying no at this point would be counterproductive; he doesn’t want to scare Pete out of bringing it up again.  He takes a deep breath before answering, like that will make any difference in his constitution at this point.

“Okay.”  It’s a struggle for Patrick to keep his voice neutral, but Pete’s more likely to listen if he sounds serious. “We’re going to be careful, though.  I don't know your limits with this and we're not going to push them right now.”

“Does that mean we're going to do that later?”  Pete asks.

“Are you telling me you won’t?” Patrick asks, wryly.  Pete has never met a limit he didn't try to break.

“If you'll let me.”

"That could probably be arranged.”  Patrick’s already getting ideas of things he could do to Pete.  Of things Pete could do to him.

When he leans down to kiss Pete, Pete reaches up to meet him.  It's lazy and slow at first and Patrick relaxes into it. It feels like the first time he's touched Pete with intent all day.

Their kisses become deeper, messier, and Pete pulls Patrick fully on top of him.  “This,” he says, pushing at Patrick's shirt in between kisses, “needs to come off.”

Patrick helps Pete get it over his head before shifting so his weight lands on Pete's hips.  The pressure is not quite enough, even when Pete angles up for better contact.

“Is this good?”  Patrick asks, unable to keep himself from trailing his fingers down Pete’s side.  Pete gasps in a breath under his touch.  It’s delightful.

“Fuck yes,” Pete says. “Want you to hold me down.”

“Oh?”  Patrick puts a hand on Pete's shoulder and presses down lightly.  Pete shoves back against it, a test, and Patrick increases his pressure. “No,” he says, voice low enough that it's almost a growl, and Pete lets his head fall back as he drags in a long breath.

Patrick shifts his hips against Pete's so the drag of his pajama bottoms creates a delicious friction between them.   “Fuck,” Pete whines; Patrick can feel the muscles in his thighs flexing as he tries to keep from thrusting up into the roll of Patrick's hips.

“So good,” Patrick breathes into Pete's lips.  He barely lets their lips brush together before pulling back, letting up on Pete so they can undress fully.  Patrick resettles his weight on Pete’s hips and rests the heel of his hand on Pete’s collarbone, thumb resting on the hollow of his neck. He can feel Pete’s throat working when he swallows under the pressure, and the gentle rise and fall each breath Pete pulls in.  He clenches his fingernails into the back of Pete’s neck just to feel him gasp.

"You can leave a mark," Pete gasps out, "if you want."

"Not now," says Patrick.  Not ever, maybe, because he doesn’t necessarily want evidence of his and Pete’s sex life out for all the world to see; but definitely not now.  They still have another video to shoot and they don't need makeup asking sensitive questions.  Patrick hardly knows the answers himself, yet.  He sticks to what he does know and rolls his hips against Pete's again and then reaches down and wraps a hand around both of them.

Pete makes a small noise in his throat.  “More,” he says.  “Moremoremore, Patrick, please.”

Patrick presses into Pete’s neck a little harder and Pete’s eyes slide closed.  

“You have to tell me to stop,” he says, “If it’s too much.”

Pete nods, or maybe he’s just responding to Patrick’s touch.

“ _Pete_.”  Pete makes what could be a noise of agreement, but Patrick isn’t chancing it.  He bites his lip to ground himself and pauses on his next downstroke, squeezing lightly at the bases of their cocks.  Pete’s eyes flutter open and Patrick waits for them to focus.  “Pete, I’m serious.”  

“Yeah, okay,” says Pete.  “I’m good, I swear.”  

Patrick nods and slides his hand down to momentarily cup Pete’s balls, reveling in the way he can feel each twitch of Pete’s muscles as he searches for more contact.  They’ve been doing this long enough for it to be familiar, but not so long that Patrick takes it for granted—though maybe he never will.  If tonight is any indication, things aren’t going to get old with Pete.

“Breathe,” Patrick instructs.  Pete takes a short gasp of a breath.

“More that that,” says Patrick.  "Breathe deep.  You'll need it.”

Patrick begins to stroke them slowly during Pete's shaky inhale and exhale.  “Again,” he says, speeding his hand a bit and running his thumb over the head of Pete's cock.  Despite Patrick's weight resting on top of him, Pete's hips are twitching up into Patrick's hand.  Patrick loves it when Pete reaches the point where he can’t control himself no matter how hard he tries.  It’s even more gorgeous when Pete throws his head back and arches up as he lets his breath out.

“One more time,” Patrick says, trying to keep his voice steady.  He finds himself drawing air in tandem with Pete, long and shaky.  

“Good.  Now stop.”  

Pete freezes immediately.  “Fuck,” says Patrick.  “That’s.  You’re so.”  He jerks them hard and fast and keeps as careful an eye as he can on Pete.  It's only a few seconds before Pete tenses up under him, and Patrick barely manages to hold Pete down as he strokes him through his orgasm.

"You can breathe now," Patrick gasps out, jacking himself off frantically until he comes all over Pete's chest.  “Pete, _fuck_ —” 

Pete tugs at his arm frantically until Patrick collapses on top of him in a position that can't be comfortable.  Pete doesn't seem to care, just kisses Patrick sloppily and makes happy noises into his mouth.

Patrick manages to re-situate them so be doesn't crush Pete.  “We’re a fucking mess,” he observes, possibly because that’s about the level of brain function he can manage at the moment.  

Pete chuckles into Patrick’s neck and doesn’t relax his grip at all.  “Thank you,” he says softly as Patrick scratches gently at the back of his head.

“Yeah?” Patrick asks.  “That was—was it what you wanted?”

Pete nods.  “Can we. Would you do that again sometime?”

“If you want,” says Patrick.  Pete presses closer to him at the words and Patrick can almost feel Pete’s lips against his neck.  “That list, are you still making it?”

“Should I?”  Pete still sounds a bit cautious, like he’s not sure Patrick isn’t just humoring him.

“I think you should let me help,” says Patrick.

“Fuck,” says Pete.  “Really?”

“Mmm,” Patrick says, grinning into Pete’s hair.  “Then you gotta give me what I want.”

“Stop it,” says Pete.  “You—I don’t think I can go again right now, so stop talking.”

“Later, then?”  Not tonight, because Patrick’s about to pass out, but he’s not letting this one go.  “We’ll make time.  Soon.”  The promise rolls off his tongue easily like they always have, around Pete.  “I’m counting on it.”  


End file.
